Red Clay
Hip hop is everywhere for me. This past Friday I felt it’s presence at the edges of my consciousness, egging me on, inspiring passion, disappointment, and, finally, resignation.
The sequence of Friday’s events culminated in a theatrical, melodramatic display on my kitchen floor. I was on my hands and knees, crying “Redddd Claaaaaay,” clawing at the “clay” on the floor, for effect.
I pulled into the parking space right in front of the record store and felt my nerves tingle. What was I going to find?
I flipped through the new arrivals bin. There was a Nina sings Billie Holiday record, pressed sometime in the late 70s, on an obscure label. Not Pickwick, but something similar. I thought about it. Another customer was walking around with a Cannonball Adderley record, and when he went to cash out, he put it back in the bin. I checked it out. Didn’t pull me in - a collaborative LP with Sergio Mendes and some bossa nova quintet. It looked poorly presented.
I flipped through the bins and picked up Freddie Hubbard’s Red Clay.
I knew the CTI aesthetic right away, and its colour scheme was similar to Airto’s Fingers; red image, black background, and an appealing font. The minimalist design, bold text, and profound/abstract title, all appealed. Ron Carter on the bass, Herbie Hancock on the keys. $3 price tag. It spoke to me. But I had to cut back and it had to start somewhere. So I left it behind.
Coming back to work, still on a break, I had to hear it. If it sounded as good as it looked, I could justify $3.
I loaded it up on YouTube and there, in the opening 90 seconds of the title track
was “Sucka Nigga.”
I envisioned myself in the studio, a part of Tip’s creative process, the moment he looped that sample. Phife and I hi-fived.
I had to go back. But it was noon now, I had to teach a class at 12:40, and I still needed to eat lunch. I could wait; no one in that store looked like he would buy a Freddie Hubbard record. I had another break at 1:45 anyway.
Come 1:45, I headed back to my car, nervous with anticipation. Tribe's been on the mind this month, and I grew teary-eyed this week, reading transcripts of the speeches made at Phife’s life celebration. That I happened upon a record with a Tribe bass line was serendipitous. And wasn’t it amazing that after collaborating with him on The Low End Theory (“My man Ron Carter is on the bass”), Tip sampled him on Midnight Marauders?
How many Ron Carter bass lines inspired Tribe songs?
I am alive in these moments when pieces of musical minutiae, previously dormant in the otherwise inaccessible shadows and folds of my neural pathways, are illuminated and breathe with life.
I walked back in to the store and it was surprisingly busy. Immediately I noticed another customer holding the Nina sings Billie Holiday record and started to worry. He had other records under his arm too; was he also holding Red Clay? I flipped through the new arrival section, strategically positioning myself between other diggers to get to the pertinent bin as soon as possible.
I got to the bin and flipped through in a daze, fatigued with mental focus. No Red Clay. It wasn’t there. I flipped through it, and the surrounding bins, again. It wasn’t there. Did that guy have it? I followed him around the store, trying to covertly identify it. It wasn’t till he was up at the cash that I saw he was not buying Red Clay.
The staff didn’t remember whether it was sold or not, but they hadn’t moved anything around. I know how people pick up records, continue to browse, then drop them wherever. I manically flipped through the jazz section, though I knew it wouldn’t be there.
I found another CTI piece, Milt Jackson’s Sunflower, with all the same players on it, but a $12 price tag. I wanted Red Clay!
I left the store empty handed and disappointed. Back at work, I still had time to kill until last period class. Knowing it was ill advised, I loaded up Red Clay on YouTube again, then, with a masochistic flair, also listened to “Sucka Nigga.” RED CLAY! Some asshole was asking $36 for it on discogs. And I’d passed on a $3 opportunity!
Trying to wade through my Red Clay mire, I remembered Sunflower.
Then, it happened again, this time in 45 seconds: there was the Common "Interlude" from DJ Honda.
And, in the shadows of Red Clay, I resigned myself to Sunflower. Hopefully it will still be there on Monday.
Hip hop is everywhere, and I dig for it with my hands. But it can hurt if I'm clawing through clay.
